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It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt this kind of bone-deep, lung-constricting panic. Not since junior year of college when a phone call from Nick turned into two days holding vigil by Amelia’s bedside, wondering if this car accident would be the one to take her. As I race through yet another set of emergency room doors, I feel twenty-one and terrified all over again.
Parking was a nightmare so I made Sunday and August get out at the entrance. I told them to get checked in while I searched for a spot; I lasted all of five minutes before I snagged the first random person I saw and bribed them with a hundred bucks to be a valet for the night. A sickening sense of deja vu washes over me as I approach the reception desk, and I have to swallow three times before I manage to choke out, “I’m looking for Sunday Lane.”
The man behind the desk holds up a finger, gesturing to the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to rip the thing from his hands and chuck it at the wall. Taking my frustration out with my knuckles rapping against the wood instead, they’re sore and red by the time he finally hangs up and addresses me. “Are you family?”
Fuck, I know where this is going. “I’m her partner.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I—”can only talk to family.I know. I’ve had this conversation twice before in my life.
I hate it just as much the third time.
Frustration bubbles and rises, a little spewing over the edge. “Do you know who the fuck I am?”
“Cass.”
Whirling around, I feel no relief at the sight of Sunday hurrying towards me because she’s coming from the waiting room, still wearing the same jersey and sweats she was when she got out of my car. Grabbing her hand, I squeeze tightly. “No one’s seen you yet?”
“I’m filling out paperwork.” She tries to tug me towards the waiting room, casting apologetic glances at the receptionist. “I’m sorry. He’s the father.”
When I don’t budge, she hisses my name again.
“We’re not gonna wait,” I hiss right back, gaze whipping towards the receptionist again. “I want a doctor, now. My girlfriend is pregnant andbleeding.”
Ordinarily, I’d feel bad about snapping. I’d definitely feel some type of way about how the receptionist’s face reddens after checking my ID, something obviously clicking—for God’s sake, ESPN is playing a rerun of yesterday’s game in the waiting room I will not be stepping foot in. He, and anyone else in here who might recognize me, can sell as many stories as their little hearts desire; TMZ can print as many articles with ‘Cass Morgan,’ ‘rude,’ and ‘difficult’ in the title as they want. Anyone can do anything as long as Sunday is okay.
“Mr. Morgan,” the receptionist squeaks, handing back my ID. “My apologies. Someone will be with you right away.”
He means it. Sunday barely has time to let August know she’s getting checked out—he elects to stay in the waiting room; I think hospitals freak him out too—before we’re being escorted to a bed, a nurse taking Sunday’s paperwork and an ultrasound technician introducing herself while pulling the privacy curtain around the bed.
As she squirts gel on Sunday’s stomach and spreads it around with a wand, I hold my breath. “Is she okay?”
The tech’s smile is sunny and fake. “Give me a moment, sir.”
I do. Just one. And then, I repeat, “Is she okay?”
The fingers wrapped around mine squeeze tightly, a silent reprimand that I barely feel.
“Heartbeat is strong. Placenta looks good. The baby is—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the baby, is Sunday okay?”
I’m only vaguely aware of the loss of Sunday’s hand in mine. And of the room’s temperature seemingly dropping a solid ten degrees. The tech’s face falls, mouth forming a hard, disapproving line. Even the guy in the next bed over is shooting me a dirty look through the crack in the curtain but I don’t care. I just wanna know if Sunday is okay, and I don’t get why no one will tell me.
With a terse smile, the tech finishes up. As she wipes her stomach clean, she shoots Sunday a pitying look, giving her shoulder a conciliatory pat. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
When she leaves, an awkward silence settles and I know I should break it, should say something, but I can barely breathe let alone speak or think or do anything I should. I can’t even look at Sunday because if I do, I’ll picture her in a hospital gown in a hospital bed with wires and tubes and needles sticking out of her and I’ll vomit. Staring at the white-knuckled fingers clutching the hem of her jersey is all I can manage but when I try to take them and she flinches away, that makes me wanna vomit too.
It feels like a lifetime passes before the doctor finally appears, and I wonder if the tech gave her the dirt because she definitely gives me some kind of a look before smiling gently at Sunday. “Ms. Lane?”
Her answering nod is stiff.
“I’m Dr. Murphy,” she introduces herself, fiddling with the tablet in her hands. “I’m gonna take care of you today, okay?”
“Is she okay?” I ask for the fourth fucking time, and finally, I get an answer.
“Everything looks good,” she tells Sunday and air finally enters my lungs, the bile burning the back of my throat finally recedes, my hands finally stop shaking. She keeps talking but I don’t hear any of the medical jargon she spouts. I only tune back in when she finishes with, “We’ll give you a more thorough exam once you’re admitted but I’m confident this is nothing serious.”
“You need to admit her?”
